Nyctophilia

One.

I read somewhere that writing in a journal can help sort out your thoughts, so here I am. I found this sitting at the top of my closet, among others that I filled in when I was younger, but I don't want to look at those right now; they'll just remind me of what I had but don't have anymore.

But here I am. Why? Even I don't know the answer to that.

I feel like I should give you a name. Is that weird? I don't care. I'm giving you a name.

I'll figure it out later.

What is even the point of writing? It's just forming words that form sentences that form paragraphs. It's meaningless. I don't get why it was so important to me when I was younger. Why am I here, writing, then? Again, I don't know.

I tend to ask myself questions I don't know the answers to. Maybe, by the time I'm finished with this, I'll have at least some answers. After all, this is supposed to sort your thoughts, isn't it?

I feel like this is going to be a waste of my time. But I have a lot of time on my hands, so I guess it can't hurt to give it a try.

How are you supposed to end an entry? I don't remember anymore.